Double Feature
by elincia
Summary: Badou and Haine on an off night, which means less bullets and carnage and more cheap Chinese food and pilfered booze. BadouHaine


**Title**: Double Feature  
**Author**: keelhaul lizzie  
**Pairings**: Badou/Haine  
**Rating**: R  
**Genres**: General/Drama  
**Summary**: Badou and Haine on an off-night, which means less bullets and carnage, and more cheap Chinese food and pilfered booze.  
**Wordcount**: 1282  
**Warnings**: slash, porn, drinking; a general exercise in pointlessness.  
**Date**: April 4, 2006

_Notes_: There are a lot of things about this story that probably don't make any sense and/or sound really stupid, but... yeaaah. I'm assuming that in the Dogs canon, Mexico still exists. (that's a true story, by the way. ...You'll understand when you get there.) Oh, and I totally wrote this ages ago, as the date indicates. Aheh.

——

_up on the edge on the high rise roof;  
oh, let me touch you._

——

Badou comes in through the window of Haine's apartment at nine PM, two brown paper bags in hand and a cig on his lower lip, dropping ashes like falling bombs onto the linoleum. Their evening at the movies (monster double feature, of course, in the decrepit theatre tucked in between a wig shop and an abandoned café) has turned into an evening in Haine's living room with the TV on. Same basic principle.

"You're late." Haine raises his head off the couch armrest; he's too lazy to glare so he settles for a creepy stare.

"Maybe I wouldn't'a been if you'd'a let me in," Badou counters, dropping the bags onto Haine's chest. "I was knockin' on the window for like an hour. I was considering throwing a rock, but—"

"You didn't _have _to come in through the window."

"It's easier that way."

Haine rolls his eyes but lets it go as Badou settles himself comfortably on the floor. It is dark outside and the light comes from the TV screen, throwing pale blue shadows across his face. A haze of smoke obscures his eyes as he exhales into the air.

"What'd you get?" Haine dumps the bags out onto the couch and it creaks under the strain.

"Chinese. I think the chick there likes me." He indicates the galaxy of extra egg rolls and dumplings, and catches the look on Haine's face through the dark and the smoke; it is quickly becoming like a bar in the confines of Haine's tiny apartment. "Oh, and some José Cuervo."

"Where—"

"I think Mihai's a drunk, that bastard, he's got a shitload of the stuff just sittin' around."

"Oh."

They eat the Chinese in silence, the only noise the TV, murmuring quietly over the rush of cars outside, and the plastic forks scraping against their teeth; a tine breaks off in Badou's mouth and he curses it quite colourfully, deciding he's not hungry anymore. It was greasy shit anyways, and he was actually sort of pissed at the Chinese lady for giving him all that extra food, because it meant he'd just have to eat all of it, deep-fried grease and everything. She was probably trying to kill him, that bitch.

"The moo goo gai pan is alright," Haine says tonelessly, taking in a wilted piece of mushroom. For some reason, his eyes are drawn to the symbol on Badou's shirt; it stands out like a red-and-black beacon in the dark room, mesmerizing him.

"What, you want some?" Badou waggles his white styrofoam carton in Haine's face. There is a red stain on the top and Haine briefly wonders how it got there; he surprises himself by surmising that it is not sweet-and-sour sauce but blood, because Badou got in a gunfight on his way to Haine's apartment, weaving between the dirty buildings like some kind of deranged Pac Man, defending his pilfered booze and Friday-night-special from a group of thugs. Ah, what else are friends for?

"I toldja, I'm done," he finishes.

"Mm. No."

"We're gonna have to toss this shit out," Badou grumbles, lighting up another smoke and knowing full well it's entirely his own fault. "Anyway, what were you watching?" His carton is abandoned to the side, and Badou's attention is solely on the TV; right now it's a commercial for some kind of fruit pie and the singing guy in what could possibly be a wombat suit amuses the shit out of him. His red hair looks very dulled in the light of the TV but maybe it's just because Haine's eyes are swimming and full of fuzzy stars. He hasn't seen the sun in a long time.

"I don't remember. Something about earthquakes."

"I bet I've seen that," Badou says and launches into a very one-sided discussion about "this one time, in Mexico City", which leads him to another anecdote about Mexico; just as he's getting to the good part (his boat's broken down and the machine-gun-wielding Mexican silver miners are advancing on him and...) he suddenly remembers something. "Have you got anything fizzy? 7 Up or somethin'"?

"What for?"

Badou smiles and it looks like he's just baring his teeth (which, in a way, he is.) "Tequila slammers." Ah, yes, the stolen José Cuervo; Haine imagines Badou probably drank a lot of stolen liquour during his illustrious stay in Mexico—that's probably what reminded him in the first place.

"In the fridge," Haine says.

Fifteen minutes pass and Badou is already trashed, because he spend all his time drinking coffee so booze is still, strangely enough, somewhat new to him, even though he's been drinking for years. There is tangy fizz all over his fingers and he pauses to clumsily lick it off. The drone of the TV begins to sound like the pleasant hum of conversation before a movie, and he begins to feel like he's still at the movies, sitting in the back row with his big clunky black combat boots on the seat in front of him, eating popcorn out of somebody else's lap. He starts to get hard at the thought; he has been in countless gunfights and has killed only god knows how many men, but the ultimate thrill is still trying to see how far you can get in the back of a monster movie.

Haine is thinking the same thing, though he is much less drunk than Badou. He slams one last shot down onto the black and white tiles and then says in perfect seriousness, "Can I kiss you?"

"Just as long's'you don't bite my face off. Man, remember when—"

Haine shuts Badou up with his mouth.

They move to the couch, which isn't much better than the floor since it is scratchy and creaks incessantly, but Haine stops caring and stops considering all the possible places he could get himself a less shitty couch from, because Badou's hand is on his cock and his mouth at his throat (the good side) or maybe it's the other way around, he can't quite tell. The couch finally stops creaking when Badou gets up, bare-ass naked, to look for a condom in his coat—he finds a horrible-looking lime green one and Haine has to laugh. Laughing isn't something he does very often but he seems to think (or rather, the tequila seems to think) that now is an appropriate time.

After much fumbling and hemming and hawing Badou slides in and grunts and Haine sighs and grips his shoulders tight; he's now finding the murmurs of the TV to be rather annoying and not all like he's fucking Badou in the theatre; there should at least be some screams or roars.

The world slows, and in a rush of noise, they come; Haine first, Badou second.

In another ten minutes Badou is asleep and could've fucking burned the building down with a cig dangling between two loose (and very skilled, Haine would have to admit, even when drunk) fingers. Haine's head is fuzzy but he registers to turn off the TV because he'll be able to see better in the morning, even if Badou will have a raging and ill-concealed hangover.

He stacks the Chinese food neatly in the dark, thinking he'll give it to that dog in the alleyway, and falls asleep next to Badou.


End file.
